


Driving Home For Christmas

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Tragic Christmas Backstory TM, festive fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-20 16:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17026293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: You don't celebrate Christmas. With your history, there's not much to celebrate.Over a series of Christmas' with the Winchesters that all changes.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a quick one shot but then I wrote a prologue for some backstory and now I'm also planning an epilogue. So, like. Three chapters?

All it had taken was six words. There must have been something that gave you away. A somber expression or a morose tone. Maybe something haunting swimming in your eyes. Or maybe they’re just men who took you at your word.

No, that’s not it.

It’s a shared hunter experience. It’s knowing that recovery is often avoidance. Sometimes your own ghosts get buried instead of burnt just so you can carry on. 

You’ve been hunting with them now since March, which, for all the shit you’ve done together doesn’t seem like long enough. It felt like years. Hunting had that way about it. It bonds people together like war veterans. If you had moved in with two guys after knowing them only a few weeks, in the real world, it might be weird. In ‘the life’ that few weeks had been enough time for you to save each other’s bacon at least once or twice.

And now it’s Christmas, the first one you’ll spend with them. Or it will be in a few days. You’re sitting in a diner and Dean is waxing lyrical about his dessert when you say it, those six words.  

“Any Martha Stewart wannabe with a store-bought crust can throw together a pie. But this?” He jabs the air with a fork full of blueberry pie, “this is the real deal.”

“I haven’t done Christmas in years.” You almost whisper while reading a local paper. Stacks had been by the door when you came in so you’d picked one up and started browsing since you knew you were going to be a while. Dean couldn’t seem to eat his pie without also talking about his pie. If he actually said pie one more time you might kill him.

You’re reading an article about the school’s holiday show pageant thing when the words slip from your mouth. You’ve read the word Christmas so many times in this article alone that it feels like you’re already mid-conversation about the season. It makes sense then that you remind anyone who might be listening that it’s been a while for you. Just in case you wake up in three days time and find yourself in a winter wonderland of holiday cheer. It’s not that you hated Christmas, it was just difficult and you were out of practice.

The silence that follows your confession is terse but deafening. You can’t bring yourself to look up from the paper because with those six words you’re thinking about things that make your eyes feel heavier, burdened with unshed tears. They both notice the way you’re staring at one spot now and wisely leave the subject well enough alone. At least they leave it alone considering it’s four o’clock in the afternoon in the middle of a busy diner.

Sam clears his throat and then sighs dramatically, “dude are you nearly done? Some of us want to hit the road.”

Dean steels his gaze in the direction of his brother as if nothing had happened in your corner of the booth, “yeah you want to hit the road in _my_ car. We leave when I’m done. A pie like this needs to be appreciated like a good woman.”

A laugh chokes it’s way out at the picture your mind paints. Dean, in bed and stroking his fingers slowly over the tender crust of a comically large slice of pie. It’s a cartoon pie that has eyes and lips and pastry colored limbs. It’s somehow hilarious and vaguely intriguing all at once. This time when they look at you it’s not sympathetic but curious and this time, you manage to look at them and wave away their silent questions with your hand.

“Nothing, nothing. Hey, can I try a piece of that?” 

“Sure, sweetheart,” he says too gently for the man in your head who fondles baked goods.

Sam splutters, “you’re actually going to share y-”

Dean silences Sam with a glare as he slides the plate in your direction. You had to admit he was right, it was a damn good slice of pie.

* * *

Christmas still comes, like it does every year. It’s just that this year you aren’t setting up camp on a barstool with alcohol and beer nuts as your only friends.

When you wake up the bunker is the reassuringly the same until you make it to the kitchen. Dean is making bacon, which isn’t strange, but he lights up when he sees you. His face splits into a grin as he salaciously asks, “morning, wanna try my special eggnog?”

Your mind may not be fully awake yet but your body is, your cheeks heat up as he raises his eyebrows and holds a glass out for you. Retaliation is in order, obviously, even today. You take a slow drag of the drink, lazily lick your lips and mummer low as possible, “mmm creamy.”

He rolls his eyes as he turns back to the stove but the shake of his head makes it more endearing than frustrated. To be completely fair it is creamy, as well as sweet, spicy and unapologetically alcoholic. The shock of bourbon first thing in the morning sends heat all the way to your toes but a smile blooms across your face at the comfort coating the inside of your mouth. It's a hug in a glass. 

Dean orders you out of his kitchen on the next breath. You know by now it's better to get out of his way than stand around arguing that there's no secret to bacon. Firstly, he thinks there is a secret to bacon and secondly you should never mess with the chef. You pad into the library with a warm mug in your hands in time to see Sam, still scruffy with sleep, pas into the kitchen. Moments later Dean raises his voice again and Sam barely escapes with his life, let alone his coffee.

In the first Christmas miracle of the day, Sam doesn’t complain when Dean hands him a plate piled high with eggs and bacon. Then Sam tells you that Mary is out of town till the following day. Jack and Cas won’t be back till tomorrow morning either. While you’d have loved to see them all it dawns on you that you’ll get the whole day with just Sam and Dean, which seems infinitely safer and more comfortable, maybe that’s Christmas miracle number two.

Halfway through your mug, that’s more nog than coffee, you realize neither of them has actually mentioned what today is yet. It’s here and it’s happening but they seem to be avoiding admitting it out loud. Even if it’s clearly more than a regular snow day, there’s this underlying sense that you’re all smiling a little more and being on your best behavior.

“Merry Christmas guys.” Usually, you say happy holidays to strangers because it seems a little more disconnected. Saying Merry Christmas is not as difficult as you imagined, especially not to two people you care about. In fact, it’s as easy as breathing and when they both look up from their plates, eyes wide and smiles on their faces, you think maybe your heart grows two sizes that day.

* * *

Sam passed out two drinks ago. He’s literally sprawled over the sofa, too tall, his long body seemingly everywhere. His head is flung back and there’s more hair visible than face. It’s possibly the most ridiculous sleeping position except he literally collapsed there. His body came crashing down like gravity had snuck up on him all at once.

It’s a wonderful life is on TV. Then again it’s Christmas Day. It’s a wonderful life is always showing on Christmas Day. Probably more than once on several different channels. You and Dean are both on the floor because of Sam’s monopoly over sofa space, both with matching glasses of whiskey hanging limply from your hands.

“Can you imagine if Angels were really like that?”

Neither you nor Dean is really watching it. You’re both looking at the screen but that only implies your full attention. You both know the story well enough to talk over it. 

He cocks his head slowly at the black and white pictures as if it’s a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. It’s the scene where Clarence is showing George his dead brothers grave, “dunno. Clarence is a bit of a dick if you ask me. Pretty angelic.”

You snort at his answer, “I keep forgetting they’ve done this to you before.”

“They made me eat salad.”

You bump his shoulder with yours jokingly, “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through.”

You don’t pull back. Once your shoulder touches his it’s just more comfortable to lean a little in his direction. Either for the connection or just, momentarily, placing a little of your weight on him. He doesn’t complain, you’re not sure if he even notices the extra weight or the proximity.

“Ever Imagine that for real? I mean not the salad thing but everyone else not knowing who you are? Like you'd never been born.”

He shrugs and you still being pressed against him feel it rather than see it, “guess I kinda did. Apocalypse world didn’t have a Sam or Dean. None of those people know us. Bobby didn’t know… he isn’t _our_ Bobby.”

Dean’s voice struggles to disguise his emotions sometimes. You’ve already seen examples of that, already added this to the list of things you know about him. There have been moments on hunts when he can’t always hide the panicked quiver if Sam is in danger. Or nights drinking when he can’t always cover the choked sadness that creeps at the edges of his existence. This is the latter. It’s not something you’ve heard him say before, even the first time he explained who Bobby was, or had been. But now there’s this tiny shudder in how he says ‘our Bobby’ as if there’s some compartmentalization in his head. As if the real Bobby’s name was a different word altogether, one he’s not said in a while.

You want to say sorry for bringing it up but you don’t want him to think you feel sorry for him. Both of them, the sleeping Winchester and the one you’re drinking with, have dealt with more shit than you could ever imagine. You don’t feel sorry for them, you’re in awe they’re still standing.

Before you find a way to properly phrase your apology, he asks, “why? You thinking about asking Clarence for a Christmas wish then?”

Dean is just deflecting. He’s changing the subject from what's going on in his head before he finds himself too deep in whatever despair sits in his gut. But now he’s touched on yours.

“I’m not jumping off a bridge or anything to make it happen but yeah. I- I’d get to see my family again.”

He sucks in a breath, it’s this tiny gust of air and it’s practically silent but being as close as you are to him it almost sounds like a hiss. He’s hit a nerve he didn’t mean to and you answered more honestly than you intended, and now there’s this tension buzzing in the space between you. Neither of you wants to move but you’re both too statuesque to still be casually watching the movie. You haven’t ever talked about your family and your silence apparently hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“Your family?” He asks. It’s an open enough question that you could swing back around to the movie and make some joke. His voice is easy and doesn’t push for information. His offer is there though, buried in the subtext. Did you want to talk about it?

Were it any other day and the answer might be, would probably be, no. It’s just today is _the_ day, Christmas day. The anniversary claws at your soul leaving welts so deep that talking about it might be the only sufficient distraction.

“I was eight. My brother yanked me out of bed and told me to go get our neighbor. Almost pushed me all the way down the stairs when I heard my mom scream. I didn’t even put shoes on I just ran. I don’t know why he stayed. He was ten, I guess he thought he was being a man or something. By the time I came back with Mr. Hughes they were… He thought I was crazy at first. Thought it was some game. I had to drag him inside to make him believe me but it was too late.”

You’re not crying, that would be too easy, or too hard. You forget which. You’re still leaning on Dean and you’re both still facing the screen, pretending, while the hand resting on his thigh twitches. Or his pinky does. Like he’s halfway to reaching out for you when you breathe in through your nose and keep going.

“It was a vengeful spirit trapped in this big dolls house I had just got for Christmas. My mom had found it in an antique store and I’d played with it for a few hours. Then it killed my parents, and my brother when he ran in to help them.”

You’re interrupted by the obviously fake gunshots on screen as the police chase after George.

The only sound is Sam's heavy breathing and the movie. You don't know if Dean is waiting for more of the story but there isn't any. Not beyond you blaming yourself, and your dolls house, for the death of your entire family.

This is not how Christmas should go. The day shouldn't end filled with awkward, sad silences. You had a sneaking suspicion they’d given up their Christmas, sent everyone away for this, for you, to ease you into celebrating. And here you were drunkenly telling Dean your tragic backstory™.

George runs into his house telling his kids how much he loves them because you’re watching a movie and everything ends perfectly in movies.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin-”

He doesn’t let you get your full apology out, “nothing to apologize for. I’m glad you told me.”

His choice of words, being glad, gives you pause for a second and then your lips curl ever so slightly. You’re glad you told him too. You’re glad you told someone after all this time but for some reason, you think Dean might have been one of the better choices you could have made. 

After a beat he murmurs lowly, just for you, "you didn't do anything wrong." 

He means telling your story. He means you didn't ruin today. And yet, his words settle in your bones. A band-aid you didn't know you needed.

The town is pouring in now and all of George’s problems have disappeared. You tip back the rest of your drink and yours disappear too, albeit temporarily. You slink down a little further against the floor until it’s your head leaning on Dean instead of your shoulder.

“I wouldn’t mind doing Christmas again.”

Six better words. 


	2. Driving Home For Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re on a case all by your lonesome up in a small town in Wisconsin. When it snows you’re more concerned with keeping warm than getting out of dodge. Big mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd. I'll probably, maybe, fix my mistakes tomorrow.

“Calm down. The ghost is all taken care of and the very grateful Crewes family even gave me a candy cane for my trouble.” Sam laughs at you down the phone knowing that you probably asked for the candy cane. You did, but he doesn’t need to know that, they were more than happy to share after you saved their lives and all. 

“When are you coming home?” 

They’d been working a case out East and had finished up a day early. They were already back in the bunker, safe and warm. You, however, had taken a salt and burn up in Wisconsin. Except it turned out to be a cursed object since the guy was already cremated and, well, it took you an extra day to figure out what the damn thing was. Which was fine, really, except now you’re still in town when a snowstorm hits. Not that you’re telling Sam that. They’d both worry about you but really the snow isn’t  _ that _ bad. Berta, the owner of the motel you’re staying in, brought you a space heater and extra blankets the day before. Because you’re the only dummy staying this close to Christmas. She’s literally giving heaters and blankets away since you're her only clientele. So, you have a plan. You’re going to build a hot box and wait it out, you’ll be back on the road in the morning. No need to concern their pretty little heads about a few flakes. 

“It’s too late to drive anywhere after a long day saving lives and being a hero. I figure I’ll make a day of it tomorrow.” 

Adding the joke means Sam doesn’t notice your worried tone as you peak out of the curtain at the powder piling high around the tires of your car. God, you were going to have to shovel that in the morning. Great. 

“Ok, well get some sleep or something and call me before you leave tomorrow.” 

His mother hen nagging comes from a place of caring so you don’t tease him as much as you normally might. Not when he doesn’t even know the reason he should be rightly worried. 

“Sure, sure. Night Sam.”

“Night Y/N.”

As soon as the line goes dead operation get-this-chill-out-of-your-goddamn-bones begins. It starts by kicking the heater to life until it’s buzzing away and emitting a dangerously orange hue. Then you start the layering. First leggings with a long sleeved thick cotton shirt tucked in. Over the top of that a pair of sweats you stole from Dean a long time ago, along with a sweatshirt that drowns you. Thick, fluffy socks get slipped on and tucked in before the blankets start getting piled high. By the time you’re done the bed looks akin to a childlike fort but then you crawl inside, wrap yourself up and realize the comparison is all wrong. What you’ve actually built is a cocoon and you might never emerge from it. 

Even with all the layers it still takes a while, maybe twenty minutes, to warm up against the chill of the snow as it seeps through the too thin walls. But when you do feel warmth sweep over your skin it all becomes worth it. If an extreme temperature is going to kill you in the night it’ll be heat, and what a way to go in a snowstorm.

* * *

When you open your eyes you’re still swaddled like a giant baby in your endless blankets. You’re warm, toasty and although you’re there’s a tacky film of sweat covering your body it’s still preferable to the temperature you know exists outside of your bed. 

But sweat is not what woke you up. Neither is the encroaching cold. It’s your phone. 

It’s buzzing away on the bedside cabinet as if it’s angry. It stops before you untangle yourself enough to stick an arm out but considering the ten missed calls on your phone someone certainly seems to be frustrated.

The small draft of cold air you let in by moving is refreshing against the heat of your skin. You’re considering unfurling yourself completely when the phone rings again, this time in your hand. His name pops up for what must be the eleventh time and you let out this resigned sigh. Dean doesn’t call this many times in a row unless it’s important, and at this point, he probably thinks you’re dead so maybe it would be kind to put him out of his misery. 

“Hello?”

You can hear his relief as you answer, there this big exhale that’s rattled down the line, but then he obviously remembers why he’s calling and allows himself to circle right back around to frustrated. “What the hell? You ever heard of answering your phone?”

“Good morning to you too grumpy.” He won’t see your grin but you know it’s there. 

“I’ve been calling for an hour.”

“I was sleeping.” He huffs at that and you can understand his annoyance. You normally only sleep so soundly in your room, shrouded in the safety of the bunker. Not at a motel in bumfuck nowhere. 

“When were you going to tell me about the snow?” 

You shoot upright like the question was shouted at you from across the room instead of echoed down your phone. You’re half expecting to see him standing there with coffee, breakfast and a scowl. He’s not. 

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You stutter out the lie unconvincingly. 

He barks out this sarcastic laugh. “Take it you haven’t looked out of the window this morning then?” 

Just like that, you don’t have a secret about the snow anymore, he does. You want to take that power away from him as quickly as possible so you roll out of bed and stumble to the still closed curtains. The line where the curtains meet gets brighter and whiter with each step. In reality, you’ve taken seconds to haul ass across the room but in your head, the hand that reaches for the material and pulls it back is achingly slow. A fittingly dramatic reveal for the amount of snow covering every surface outside. It’s easily 12 inches, maybe more. Probably, definitely more. There’s not even a flicker of childlike wonder in your eyes as you look out because your immediate reaction is how screwed you are. Your car, as beat up and shitty as it was, is fucked. You can only just about tell the general shape now. Not that you know where the road is. Where you could previously see it in your roadside motel now there’s just a postcard blanket of undisturbed snow. 

“Fuck.” 

“Yep.” Dean hums all too smugly reminding you that he’s still on the phone. 

Your calves hit the bed as you drift backward, like moving away from the window will make the scene outside somehow different. “Shit. I guess I’m stuck here.”

There’s a flurry of emotions going through you faster than the snow that's blocked you in. You’d actually been looking forward to Christmas this year. Last year all three of you had been on a hunt, spending the 25th culling a werewolf pack. This year was going to be your first one without them tip toeing around you. For once you don’t want to spend it alone and wrapped up in painful memories. And yet, you don’t really have a choic now. 

“...you’re not getting away with it that easy.” Dean is rambling away in your ear and you haven’t listened to a word he said. 

“Sorry, what?” That’s when you notice it, the rumble of Baby in the background.

He huffs and you can hear the sarcastic annoyance on his dumb face, “I said, don’t worry about it.”

Your tongue seems to have doubled in weight for how thickly you swallow, “Dean… where are you?”

“Passed Omaha about thirty miles back.”

“Dean.” The word carries a stern warning. You won’t be saved like some damsel in distress. You’ll be fine holed up in this motel room for a few days till your car, hopefully, reveals itself. Lonely and chilly but alive.  

“Y/N,” he replies, mocking your tone.

“I’ll be fine. There’s a gas station not far from here. I’ll make the walk there, stock up on food and wait until it melts enough for me to drive. Turn around and go home.”

Even as you’re saying it you’re dreading the idea of going outside. Unfortunately, Dean knows you too well, much better than you realize. “Open the door, sweetheart.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

You want him to turn around so you play along. You whip the door open and close it just as quickly but it’s enough for crisp winter air to attack your face like thousands of pinprick needles all at once. “HOLY FUCKING SHIT.” 

“Yeah, thought so.” He sounds satisfied that he’s made his point. “You’re not going anywhere. Get whoever owns the joint to get you some food, pack your shit and stay inside.” 

“It’s a twelve-hour drive each way. And what am I supposed to do, just leave my car? I know you’re not going to drive Baby through this.” Even to your ears, your excuses sound pathetic and half-assed, but goddammit you’re trying. 

“Good thing I drive fast. Your car was already junk, if you miss it that much I’ll bring you back when the snow melts. I’ve got it covered.”

Before you can say anything else the line goes dead. You know it’s not a service problem, he’s hung up. Probably with a self-satisfied grin and some comment to his empty car about him always being right.

He definitely knows how to piss you off before a twelve hours car ride together.

* * *

A deity somewhere is looking out for you, enough that the pipes aren’t frozen over and you’re able to have a shower so hot that your skin is scalded red. You dry your hair, make a big song and dance about getting dressed and then, as instructed, ‘pack your shit’.

As if she knows the exact moment you’re clothed and presentable Berta, the sprightly old woman that she is, knocks on the door. 

“Oh good, you’re not dead!”

“Probably wouldn’t be opening the door if were.” The master key in her hand gets quickly stuffed back into her large coat pocket with your answer. 

“Since you’re not dead, which I’m very pleased about, I wanted to invite you to spend Christmas with me,” her eyes have that softness people spare for the truly pathetic. “I know, I know. You were leaving today but by the looks of your car I’m guessing we’re gonna have a cozy little Christmas together.”

You could imagine Christmas with Berta. She’d probably out drink you and then start telling stories about the swinging sixties, scaring you for life. You’d have to extra nice to Dean when he gets here and saves you from the required therapy. “I appreciate the offer Berta but I’m still leaving today.” 

“But-”

“My friend is coming to get me. He’ll be here later.”

She purses her lips suspiciously which makes the wrinkles around her mouth deepen, “a friend?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Coming to get you?”

“Yep.”

“Didn’t you say you live in Kansas?”

Too late you figure out where she’s going with this but you can’t think quick enough to back-pedal the converation. “Yeah. I did.” 

“So, you mean to tell me that a  _ male _ friend of yours is driving all the way from Kansas, and back, on Christmas Eve no less, to pick you up during a snowstorm?” 

You put your hand on your hip and shake your head at the meddling old woman, “it’s not like that, Dean’s just a friend.” 

“Ohhhh,” she’s coos sounding like a police siren, “his name is Dean, huh? Dean’s coming to get you is he?”

Berta has been this forward since you got here. The night you checked in she asked you if you had a boyfriend because she has this nephew that you’d absolutely love. The first time you go and extend your stay she claps that you’ll still be in town and offers a date on his behalf. Now she’s got her talons caught into something else altogether. 

“Yes, his name is Dean. He’s just a friend. I told him not to come but he’s about as stubborn as you are, so you can imagine how well that went down.”

She flashes you this toothy, knowing smile, “oh honey. That boy must have it bad.” 

Berta doesn’t know what she’s talking about because Dean treats you like the sister he never had. But confused or not she's hit a nerve so you react with a lump in your throat and a hard set to your jaw, “goodbye Berta.”

“Yeah sure. Let me know when Dean shows up!” 

She starts shuffling away, apparently completely unphased that you rejected her Christmas invitation. You shut the door before she comes back and makes you play truth or dare. It’s only in the warmth of the room that you notice how hot your cheeks are.

* * *

You’d been reading a list of top twenty Christmas movies on your phone when there’s a second knock at the door hours later. You snap your head up when, almost immediately, the wood is banged again. Harder and more urgently. 

“Y/N!”

Your whole body breathes a sigh of relief, for you are saved.

Jumping up you pull the door open with a wide grin. He looks tired and frustrated with a thousand things, probably yourself included, but he still smirks at the sight of you. 

“You came.” 

“Told you I would. But we’ve gotta haul ass to make it back in time.”

You’re about to ask what schedule you’re on. Christmas starts when you’re all there and arguing over pancake syrup, so you can hardly miss it, but the question never leaves your lips. He strides past you and picks up your packed duffle, casts his eyes around the room to make sure you didn’t forget anything and starts leaving again. “Come on, we're burning daylight.”

His quick movements lull you out of the stupor you weremomentarily in, “sure, right, let me drop the key in and I’ll meet you at…”

The word ‘Baby’ was on the tip of your tongue just as you look over his shoulder to see this truck. Big enough to be menacing, snow chains wrapped around the tires and, most importantly, a large bearded man in the driver's seat. 

“What?”

He smiles, amused at the worry on your face, “Baby is ten minutes out of town since they haven’t plowed all the roads yet. Can you believe it, his name is fucking Michael?”

“Mike it is.” You wink at him before beginning the treacherous walk to the little office. The snow that has settled under the covered walkway outside your door is beginning to turn icy. Not all the way deathly yet but there’s a very real risk of falling on your butt in front of Dean, and now Mike, so you tread carefully. 

Berta is relieved that you’re getting out in time for Christmas and she’s not shy about sticking her neck out to try and catch a glimpse of the fabled Dean. She hums approvingly and winks at you, which you roll your eyes at. She’s awful in that harmless interfering aunt kind of way and you play along, only because she’s agreed to keep an eye on your car till you make other arrangements. 

Checked out you start trudging through the powder. In the parking lot where everything is still fresh the snow is deep enough to almost reach your knees. It doesn’t take long for a shiver to creep up your spine. The air is cold enough that every breath has an edge to it, a frosty after burn in your lungs. You focus on Dean standing by the truck waiting for you. He is the promise of escape from this frozen, lonely hellscape. Dean is snow free open roads and a milder Kansas winter. 

Sure a lot of people would love a white Christmas, yourself included. But not to this excess. Not to the point where the weather becomes a prison. 

Mike, for all his faults, and it really seems like the only one he has is being named Michael, isn’t a talker. It’s nice. For the ten solid minutes that he drives you out of town, you allow yourself your only actual enjoyment of the snow. You get to watch the picturesque yet dangerous conditions knowing that you’re leaving them behind. And eventually the further south and out of town you get the less snow there is anyway. It doesn’t disappear completely but you find yourself at a point where it feels manageable.  


Dean has parked Baby in this gas station just before the exit to the interstate, which he assures you is snow free. Mike gruffs when you wish him happy holidays but you think that might mean ‘you too’ in his vocabulary. 

The moment that you slip into the front seat of the Impala is the moment you’re already home. It’s cold inside the car as it’s been sitting here for half an hour and yet somehow there’s the slightest hint of heat. Like it’s imprinted in the leather over however many hours it took Dean to get here. 

He doesn’t say anything when he slides in and starts her up. The silence throws you. It makes everything feel a little uncomfortable. In the truck the silence had been golden, you’d assumed Dean hadn’t been talkative because of Mike, Mike hadn’t either. There had been music that filled the quiet then. But the Zeppelin thrusting it’s way out of the cassette player now is at a low level. It’s turned down as if he wants to talk and yet, he hasn’t said a word. 

Normally it’s either or. The music is either thumping at a volume where you know there’s nothing to say or it's at the volume it’s at now, and he’s a chatty Cathy. As chatty as Dean gets anyway. Today he has you in this limbo. If you were standing you’d probably be shuffling side to side awkwardly before running away but you’re in the Impala, at the start of a very long drive, on Christmas Eve of all days. You’re trapped and will be for some time. 

You can’t go on like this so you just had to break the silence, right? All you had to do was pretend that you don’t notice the awkward atmosphere as he accelerates onto the empty highway, you could do that. Just start a conversation, any conversation. “Sam said you finished up early with the Rugaru?”

“He also said everything was fine when he spoke to you last night, but we both know that’s not true.” He snaps like the argument was waiting behind his teeth for you to say something first. 

“What?”

“The snow was already pretty bad last night, I checked.”

Ok, so he’s pissed. He’s clearly been getting more and more worked up about this on the drive here. All you had to do was calm him down. “It wasn’t that bad it was just normal snow, I had no idea that it would-”

“Get you snowed in? Right. Because you’d have been able to drive that shitty car of yours through any kind of snow.”

That ticks you off a little, whether it’s the implication that your car is worthless or your driving. He’s not wrong about your car but he didn’t need to say it. “Excuse me. Didn’t see you driving your precious Baby into town.” 

That’s it, hit him where it hurts.  _ His _ car. 

“‘S different. She’d have been fine last night.” 

You scoff unsure if you’re angry or actually shocked, “do you really think I got snowed in on purpose?”

“I think you could have told us about the snow last night. I think you were trying to avoid-” he doesn’t finish, instead expelling a big, frustrated sigh. 

His grip on the wheel loosens a little, which gives you a chance to see how tightly he’d been holding on. White knuckling it even. Then you notice the empty coffee cups strewn on the backseat. You start putting a timeline together in your head. He must have been driving at least a couple of hours, maybe three, when he called you that morning. Slowly you work out that this idiot has easily been driving for over ten hours straight, without a break. And it’s all your fault. 

You look around to check for any other traffic before you carefully put a hand on his shoulder. He’s tense under your fingers like an elastic band pulled too tight, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. Please pull the car over.” 

The muscle in his arm loosens a little at your apology and then he turns to you with a confused expression when you ask him to pull over. 

“What the hell?”

“Pull the damn car over now or I’ll make you!” The soft apology of your voice is replaced with a hard demand. 

His eyes flick to the mirror before he swerves onto the side of the road. The engine halts and he turns his body towards you, possibly expecting a continuation of your argument. That’s when you get out of the car. 

On the highway, this much further south, there’s hardly any snow. Maybe a light dusting on the ground but the road itself is clear, just wet. It’s still cold though, enough that you shiver as you stomp around to the other side of the car. It’s just, you can’t falter because of the temperature, not when his eyes are on you for every step. His unrelenting stare has to be what keeps you going. 

At the driver's side, you yank the door open and stare him down from your standing position, “move.”

He opens his mouth to argue, even starts it off, “if you think I’m letting you…” 

“I get it. You don’t  _ need _ to take a break because you’re Dean Winchester or whatever. But here’s the thing, by my calculations you’ve been driving since, what, four? If you can promise me you took a break on the way here then you’re off the hook. Otherwise move over because I said so.”

For not being a parent you’ve got a surprisingly authoritative mom voice and somehow it works. He begrudgingly slides over to the passenger seat, silently answering you. Probably got his coffee at drive-throughs on the way and didn’t even stop to drink them, lunatic. 

“A few hours that’s it.” He grumbles, which might well be threatening if half the tension in his torso hadn’t melted away already. 

“Sure thing. Just get some sleep and I’ll wake you in a few.” 

It’s probably a testament to your relationship, friendship obviously, that he actually listens to you. You steal glances out the corner of your eye as he shimmies down the seat until his body is slung low, his legs crossed over each other and his head bent against the back of the seat. The position looks too awkward for sleep but you know getting him in the back would be pushing your luck, besides you’ve seen him sleep in more cramped quarters before. Worst case scenario he’ll be grumpy when he wakes up but that’s pretty true of any time he wakes up.

Even with how tired he must be you're still surprised with how quickly his eyes close. One second they’re open and warily watching you drive and in the next second, he blinks them closed. Somewhere on a straight of road, you take a hand off the wheel to reach in the back, blindly searching for the thick, wool blanket kept there. Like a game of buckaroo, you’re careful to put it over him, one hand still on the wheel as you gently cover him with it a little at a time. The whole thing probably takes ten minutes but he looks so much cozier after you’re done that you smile out to the road ahead, pleased with your progress. 

You keep the music low as you drive and try to resist watching him out the corner of your ey for too long at aa time.

* * *

“Rise and shine sleeping beauty!” You sing-song loudly as you cut the engine. 

Dean startles awake in a way that tells you he was a little more asleep that he intended to be. It’s cute. Not that  _ he’s _ cute or anything, it’s just you know him well enough to know that sleeping while someone else drives Baby is not a trust he affords to many people. You’re smart enough to appreciate that. 

“Where the fuck are we?” His voice is groggy even if his words are angry and you have to resist thinking the word ‘adorable’. 

“Since you asked so nicely,” he pushes the blanket off of him suspiciously as you answer, “we’re outside Fort Dodge, I think, anyway we’re about halfway and I need food.” 

Dean grins with sleep still clinging to the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, “it’s like you read my mind.”

“You were dreaming of me waking you up outside a Wendy’s?”

“Something like that,” he groans as he stretches his muscles the best he can in the confines of the car.

It’s not that you get distracted watching him stretch and it’s not that you’re wondering what he was dreaming about. You’re distracted by both and neither at the same time. And Berta’s meddling voice pops up in your head. 

Eventually, Dean clicks his fingers in front of your face. “You ok there sweetheart?” 

“Yeah, yeah! I’m fine, it’s just…” your sentence drifts off into nothing. You don’t know what to say. There’s nothing to say. No matter how long you maintain his expectant eye contact. “I’ll go get the food.” 

The inside of the Wendy’s is as dead and depressing as a fast food place can be at nearly eleven on Christmas Eve. You were honestly surprised they’re still open. Thankful because you needed food, but surprised. They have your order ready in record time because, what else are they doing? It’s just that as you’re leaving again, arms full of paper bags you notice Dean in the front seat of the Impala. Not singing along or tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to a song you can’t hear. He’s on the phone, a serious pucker to his lips and concern festering in his shoulders. 

That’s not even the worrying part. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time you’ve heard about a case this late. The suspicious bit happens when he makes eye contact with you coming across the parking lot. He hurries a stern goodbye and hastily puts his phone away. 

“Who was on that?” you’re careful to keep your voice measured and casual as you take your place in the passenger's seat. You pull the blanket he rejected up over your legs before you shove a burger into his hands. 

“Nobody.” He answers too quickly. So suspiciously in fact that he notices his own mistake and tries to fix it before you say anything else, “Sam. It was Sam. Just meant that it was nothing important.” 

Apparently there's a back and forth game between you both. Moments of weirdness that the other doesn’t observe too closely. But what could Dean possibly have to be weird about?

* * *

The rest of the drive is comfortable silence and you’re starting to think his anger and your weirdness had been hunger in disguise. Like small children, you just needed to be fed. At some point, he tries to convince you to sleep for a while and you tell him to stop telling you what to do. It’s not a witty conversation for the ages but it restores a sense of normalcy inside the bubble you both exist in. 

He turns the music up most of the way. The Impala cuts through the empty roads with a trail of guitar riffs following behind. Well, music and the rumble of the engine. If you were tired the combination might soothe you to sleep like it has before but all those hours stuck in that motel room felt like sleep, or sleepwalking. Even as it reaches the early hours of the morning you don’t close your eyes. You don’t want to miss a single mile marker. 

About half an hour out of Lebanon is when Dean starts to get, well, twitchy. 

First, it’s just his fingers. His index finger taps the steering wheel, annoyingly out of time to the song. It’s after four am though and he’s been on the road almost twenty-four hours at this point. You kindly ignore it no matter how annoying it is. 

Then it’s these little noises he starts making. If you could squint with your ears then it might sound like the lyrics to a song. The kind of noise people make when they’re singing along and then they hit the second verse. Word adjacent noises. It’s just, again, not what the particular song playing sounds like. 

You’re forgiving of these annoying ticks he’s apparently developed. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do at Christmas, or so the songs and TV specials tell you. Forgive and forget. Peace on earth. No matter how much you want to punch him in the arm and tell him to shut up, you probably shouldn’t. 

Besides he’s just gone to extraordinary lengths to bring you home. Literally. 

Finally you reach a breaking point. His body seems to hum with broken energy when the sign for Lebanon shines under the headlights. You actually turn your head away from the window to look at him with a wary eye, like he’s a ticking time bomb. 

“You doing ok over there?” the reference to his distance, all the way on the other side of the car, is more for your own benefit. Maybe the explosion won’t reach you. 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? I’m fine. What about you?” 

Maybe he drank too much coffee. He’s been driving too long too. Or as much as he loves his Baby maybe he’s been trapped in her too long. 

And all of these are still your fault.

“I’m good. Think I’ll catch a few hours once we get in. We might even get four hours in our own beds.” You let your forehead fall back against the cold glass hoping that the promise of his memory foam is enough to chill him out.

It isn’t. When you reach the familiar stretch of road when the bunker is hidden he pulls in but puts the car in park outside the bunker door. It’s not unheard of for him to leave her there if he’s planning on driving early in the morning but you’d have thought after an entire day that he wasn't going anywhere else for a while.  


Whatever. His car, his rules. As you get out and start towards the bunker door he half jogs in front of you, “let me just get that for you.” His words make it seem like he’s going to, weirdly, hold the door open for you. What he actually does is push in front of you only to open just enough for him to stick his head through first. His whole body relaxes with whatever he sees and then he finally pushes the door all the way open. 

The bunker is empty, quiet, only the hum of the electrics but that’s just white noise. It’s what you’d expect at almost four in the morning. It’s so absolutely ordinary that it only serves to make Dean seem even more certifiable.

“OK weirdo. I’m going to go sleep for a little while. Please don’t take any more of whatever crazy you’ve been dosing.

* * *

You’d fallen asleep easily. It hadn’t felt like you’d resisted being tired in the car but as soon as your head hits the pillow you felt cozier than you had in your blanket cocoon at the motel. Now that you’ve woken up you feel bleary and disorientated, the kind of muddiness you haven’t felt since you were a child where you sleep so deep that don’t know what day it is. How long have you slept for? Was it an hour or a day? 

A quick glance at your phone tells you it’s just after 8 am so you haven’t actually slept through the apocalypse. 

You’re slow to get out of bed and your movements are still sluggish when you do. For all of the build-up, for it being the reason Dean came to get you, Christmas is the last thing on your mind. Instead, you pinball your way around your room looking for one thing after another. Hairbrush, thicker socks, a sweatshirt, before you wander casually to the bathroom to brush your teeth. 

It’s a normal Sunday until you finally step into the library. Sam is sitting with Jack on the sofa stringing popcorn and telling Jack to stop eating it before he has to pop  _ another _ bag. Which tell you they’ve probably already on bag number two. There’s this tree that’s maybe three foot with nothing but a string of Christmas lights wrapped around it. It’s both tired looking but also heartwarming somehow. 

You wander over to lean on the back of the sofa, dipping your hand into the popcorn bowl yourself and grinning at Sam as you do. “Merry Christmas guys.”

“Y/N! Dean said you wouldn’t be awake for a while. We haven’t finished decorating.” 

“And we never will if people,” he pointedly stares at you, “keep eating the decorations.”

You throw a piece at Sam at watchb with glee as it gets caught in his hair, “so what if I’m awake, can’t I help?” 

Jack’s brow creases worriedly, “no, this is supposed to be a surprise.” Sam glares at him like Jack has revealed a secret and Jack seems to realize his mistake, “sorry I forgot,” he apologizes to Sam and then looks at you with a face that could melt an ice queen. “Merry Christmas Y/N.” 

If he thinks wishing you a Merry Christmas is enough to distract you from the fact that apparently everyone in the bunker has been sniffing glue, then he’s right. Or at least you’re not caffeinated enough to investigate yet. You’d be back with coffee though, they could count on it. 

As you walk into the kitchen you’re apparently mistaken for someone else but in Dean’s defense, he’s not looking at you while he flips pancakes. “Did you get the potatoes Cas?” 

The only rational thing to do is lower your voice as low as possible and answer him with your best Batman impression, “I’m sorry Dean, they were all out of potatoes.”  


You get your first gift of the day when he spins around so fast that he’s probably given himself whiplash, “Y/N?” 

Once he’s confirmed it’s you with a brief visual inspection his face quickly cycles through annoyance and defeat before he settles into a warm smile, “morning.” 

“What’s going on with your little helpers in there?” You wander towards the coffee pot as you ask, sounding only vaguely interested in an attempt to trick the information out of him. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Really?” The hand not holding coffee rests on your hip, “because the littlest elf said something about a surprise and the much taller one gave him  _ the look _ .” 

You're watching Dean closely for the moment that he cracks. At first you think it might not happen, he goes back to flipping pancakes nonchalantly. For a moment you wonder if you’re the crazy one because he’s that convincing. And then the word 'surprise' comes out of your mouth which makes his shoulders slump his head falls forward with a sad flop. 

“I knew those idiots wouldn’t be able to keep their mouths shut.” 

“To be fair Sam’s mouth was shut, it’s Jack, sweet and innocent cannot tell a lie Jack, that gave the game away. Come on, spill it.” You close the gap between you. Nothing to do with being near him. You like to be near the pancakes, and you have every intention of jabbing him in the arm until he tells you what's going on.  


The secret is going to be some funny joke. Or a game. It’s not going to be a real thing. That’s why you keep rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet, impatiently waiting. It’s why you hum annoyingly and whine, “come on. Tell me.”

He very slowly puts the spatula down only to pinch the bridge of his nose, “the surprise is Christmas.” The confession comes out of him as more of a groan than words.    


You still don’t understand what you’re missing here. “Christmas isn’t a surprise. It’s kind of this day every year.” 

Another groan. You know he hates when you’re pedantic. He hates when Sam’s pedantic too but for some reason, you manage to tick him off that much easier. “I know.” 

“So, it can’t be a surprise.”

“You said you wanted to do Christmas again so surprise we’re doing a Winchester family Christmas. My mom will be here later and there’s a ham in the oven and why do you think I drove eight hundred miles each way to pick you up yesterday?” 

He makes some excellent points but you can’t make sense of them over the pounding in your ears. It takes a full minute before you realize it’s your own heart beating against your ribcage. 

“I’m not a Winchester.” 

“You’re as good as.” He answers quickly and sure of himself. 

“A family Christmas?” 

“You haven’t had one since you were a kid. We don’t exactly go caroling but we’ll eat.” A pancake is burning on the stove top but neither of you reacts. He’s turned his body towards you and you can’t stop looking at him, waiting for the punchline. 

“You came to get me for Christmas?” 

He nods, soft, slowly, “I’d do it again. Anytime, sweetheart.” 

Your lips part if only a little. All the better to breathe and remember yourself. All the better to wake up from whatever dream you’re still having. Although, if it’s a dream… 

You push yourself up onto the tips of your toes and press your lips to his. It’s quick and short. A second, maybe less, of feeling your mouth against his and then you fall backward, staring up at him with wide eyes. Shocked at your own behavior. The kiss is so chaste it could be familial, that’s what you’ll try to convince him off if you’ve misread this anyway, but then Dean stares at you like he’s forgotten his own name. 

“I thought you were supposed to wait for the mistletoe?” Jack interrupts from the doorway. 


End file.
